The Adventure of You
by Maybe the Moon
Summary: When Mary becomes seriously ill while delivering their first child, Watson must somehow find a balance between sorrow and new fatherhood. Meanwhile, Holmes complicates things by returning from the dead and making a tragic discovery.


**'I am not an adventurer by choice but by fate.' - Vincent van Gogh**

--

It was a strange thing, thought John Watson, to be standing in his own upstairs hall, surrounded by familiar wallpaper and furnishings, and feel a terror similar to that which he'd felt years ago in Afghanistan. Truly, perhaps this fear was greater, for no memories of blood, bone and gunfire compared to the uncertainty that gripped him as he stood outside his own bedroom door, waiting. For hours, he'd been waiting.

Moments before, Mary's cries had echoed throughout the house, a sure sign that things were moving along swiftly and the arrival of their first child was imminent. And then he'd heard the wail of the newly-born, a sound that sent his heart right up into his throat. It was all he could do not to rush into the room to see his child, kiss his wife and thrust a bottle of good brandy into the surgeon's hands, decorum be damned. He restrained himself, but only just.

And when the door opened and the maid, Mrs Porter, whisked past with a little bundle wrapped in cloth, Watson nearly tackled her to the floor in order to catch a glimpse.

"Sorry, sir," said Mrs Porter. "Mr Hayward wants me to take the baby upstairs by the fire right away. He's still tendin' to the missus and said the baby shouldn't be in there."

Watson stepped back and frowned. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

Mrs Porter nodded. "Baby's all right, but..." She gave him a sorrowful look, then turned and fled up the stairs to the nursery. Watson watched her go, then looked back at the closed bedroom door. Where there had been sound - cries, breathing, Hayward's encouraging voice, now there was only silence, and the silence threatened to overwhelm Watson in a way that the chaos of war had not been able to.

When the door opened again Watson started, stepping back and running a hand through his hair in an attempt to look as though he hasn't been quietly panicking in the hall. Mr Hayward emerged, looking grim. "How is she?" asked Watson eagerly. "May I see her?"

The surgeon fixed him with an apprehensive expression as he closed the door quietly behind him. "Doctor Watson, perhaps we could go into the study."

Watson swallowed hard. "I would like to know the condition of my wife and child, if you please."

"You ought to sit down, sir. Have some brandy-"

"Damn the brandy!" shouted Watson. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat. "I apologise for my outburst, Mr Hayward," he said, more calmly, "but give me your news here. Please."

The surgeon nodded. "There have been complications," he said quietly, in his curious accent. "Your child is in good health and in the care of your servant girl. Mrs Watson, however." He looked away. "She developed a fever, a very high fever. She had difficulty breathing and became delirious."

Watson stared. "Is she-"

"She lives," said the surgeon. "But I do not know how severe the damage has been. She does not respond."

"I want to see her," said Watson.

"Sir-"

"I am a doctor myself," said Watson. "There is little that I haven't seen." He pushed past the surgeon and opened the bedroom door - and stopped.

The air in the dark room was heavy with old blood and sickness. Mary lay in their bed, so pale that she seemed lit from within by gaslight. Her eyes were open but fixed on a point of middle distance, an expression Watson recalled seeing in too many soldiers traumatised by battle. His chest felt tight, as though the breath had suddenly gone from him and it was a moment before Watson could remember how to move his legs.

He crossed the room and knelt beside the bed, taking one of her hands in both of his. They were clammy and lifeless to the touch.

"Mary," he said softly. "Mary, it's John. Can you hear me?"

There was no reply, not in words nor in facial expression. Her eyes remained blank and cool. Her chest rose in only the barest suggestion of breathing. Watson's heart began to pound. He drew one finger past Mary's eyes, in one direction and then the other. "Mary," he said, his voice still soft but more urgent. "Can you see this? My finger, can you see it?"

Again, there was no reply. Watson did not need one to know that she saw nothing.

"Oh, dearest," Watson whispered. "Oh, Mary. My Mary." He ran his hand through her hair. It felt thin and limp, in desperate need of a wash, the curl gone from it. He rose unsteadily and gave her one long, last look before striding quickly from the room, down the stairs and into the study. He did not pour himself a glass of brandy, as one in his position might be tempted to. Instead he found his way to his favorite chair and sank into it, covering his eyes with his hands.

"My deepest apologies, Doctor Watson." Hayward's voice startled him and he looked up, the other man standing awkwardly by the fireplace. "It is certainly possible she will regain her faculties, once she has recovered, but only time will tell."

Watson nodded. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I appreciate your assistance on such short notice."

"Not at all," said the surgeon. "I am sorry that Doctor Forsythe could not be here. Perhaps it would have been easier with a friend present instead of a stranger." He smiled weakly.

"You've done your part admirably," said Watson. "I won't keep you any longer." He stood and shook Hayward's hand. "Shall I call for a cab for you?"

"No, no," said the surgeon. "It is a pleasant enough night for a walk." He walked with Watson to the door, then paused. "I hope you will forgive me sir, if I offer you some advice?"

"What is it?"

Hayward hesitated. "Should Mrs Watson, er, not recover, the burden of her care would be upon you, and it would be overwhelming to say the least." He looked at Watson earnestly. "It might be best for you to consider- There are some very lovely facilities in the country-"

Watson set his jaw and opened the front door. "I appreciate your concern," he said politely, if a bit stiffly, "but I would not remove Mrs Watson from her home in a time when she needs it most. She will remain here."

The surgeon, looking deflated, said nothing. He merely nodded at Watson, wished him a good evening, and stepped out into the night.

Watson closed the door and turned to lean his back against it, exhaling very slowly. He gazed down the dark room toward Mary's door. The house seemed so still and suddenly very large, and Watson had a strange moment of feeling as though it were swallowing him. It was suddenly quite hard to breathe.

As if on cue, a plaintive little cry echoed down from the third floor, and it occurred to Watson that he was now, at this very moment in time, a father. A father to what? he mused, feeling both amused and guilty that he had not spared a thought to the gender of his own child.

"Mrs Porter," he called, giving himself a quick once-over in the hall mirror before climbing the stairs to the nursery. "Mrs Porter?"

"We are here, sir."

His servant girl sat in a rocking chair (the one he'd bought for Mary after she'd told him of her condition) in front of the fire, with a small bundle in her lap. He stepped up quietly and peered at it.

_It reminds me of a lamb roast_, he thought.

He nearly said it aloud but did not think Mrs Porter would appreciate the humor. Instead, he whispered, "All is well, I expect?" He cleared his throat and inched closer, intimidated not because it was a baby (he'd seen and delivered a few in his time) but because this particularly baby belonged to _him_. "All toes and fingers accounted for?"

Mrs Porter smiled up at him and nodded. "She's a beauty, sir. You ought to be very proud."

A daughter, then. Mary had wanted a daughter. He'd known it, though she'd never explicitly said it. She'd assumed he wanted a son, as most men do. He'd never told her that he did not care, so long as it was healthy and theirs.

There were many things he should have told her.

Watson hesitated for a moment, then held out his arms. "Here," he said. "Give her to me."

"Sir?"

Watson nodded. "I would have you see to Mrs Watson," he said. "If you would be so kind as to stay with her tonight. You will need cool water and cloths, to keep her fever at bay. I'll be in shortly to assist."

Mrs Porter nodded and rose, and gently deposited the baby into Watson's outstretched hands. Expertly he drew the child close to him, one large hand cradling the back of her head, smiling slightly when she made an odd, squawking noise when disturbed from her sleep.

"She likes you, sir," said Mrs Porter.

"I should hope she does," said Watson softly. "For I quite like her."

With a smile, Mrs Porter excused herself. Once she was gone, the last of Watson's energy abandoned him and he sank into the rocking chair, careful not to jostle the little thing in his arms. Such an odd little creature, he thought, looking down at its - _her_ - small face. Red as if in ill-temper, eyes swollen, breathing with slight wheezes and snorts. It reminded him of a piglet he held on a childhood farm holiday many years ago.

Watson shook his head at himself and wondered if comparing his child to food and farm animals was an omen of complete ineptitude at fatherhood, or if perhaps it meant that he was merely hungry. He remembered that he hadn't eaten since that morning, when Mary's pains had begun.

A thought came to him and he looked down at his child. "You'll be hungry as well, I expect," he murmured. "We will have to see if your mother is up to the task. If not, it will be exceedingly difficult to find a wet-nurse at this hour, so I shall have to improvise."

At that thought his chest clenched, only for a moment. "Improvise," he repeated, under his breath. He looked toward the window, past the curtains of green he and Mary had selected together. He could see just the faintest of stars above the roof of the neighboring houses. "I wonder what sort of improvisation you might come up with, in this situation." His voice fell to a whisper. "Were you here, my friend."

The baby stirred, and Watson held her closer, as if her warm little body were the only thing standing between him and the night's ghosts, both old and new.

--

A month passed.

"Sir?"

Watson looked up from his newspaper. "Yes, Mrs Porter?"

"There's a woman here to see you," said the servant girl. "She wouldn't give me a name. Said she was answering the advertisement in the paper."

Watson sighed. "How did she seem to you?" he asked. "Be honest, now."

Mrs Porter hesitated. "Old," she said at last. "A bit too old, if you ask me."

"She would probably prefer 'experienced,'" he said with a small smile. "But show her in. If she's come out in this ghastly weather, the least I can do is grant her an interview."

He was not prepared for the woman Mrs Porter led into the study a moment later. She was old, bent with age, her face a leathery mask of wrinkles. He tried not to stare but it was exceedingly difficult, and he wondered how this woman managed to remain upright at all, let alone ascend the steps to ring the bell.

"Afternoon, Doctor," said the woman. Her voice sounded as if she ate cigarettes instead of smoked them, and Watson frowned at being addressed rather rudely. "I thank ye for seein' me."

"Of course," said Watson, clearing his throat. "Mrs Porter, perhaps some tea?"

"Yes sir," said the girl, eager for an excuse to flee. The old woman seemed to make her as nervous as she made Watson.

"Won't you sit down?" Watson gestured to his preferred chair, the most comfortable in the room. "I hope your journey here wasn't too much."

The woman sat with some effort, and Watson could not help but imagine the creaks and moans of an old house as it settled. "'Twas a bit of a trip, aye," she said. She looked around with naked curiosity. "Right decent place ye got here, sir. You do well for yourself, then?"

An impertinent question, but Watson treated enough of the elderly to forgive the occasional lapse in manners. "Well enough," he said, smiling indulgently. "Now then, you've come about the advertisement for a nursemaid?"

"Aye," said the woman. "But I see you've got a girl already?"

"Mrs Porter," said Watson, nodding. "She is invaluable in most aspects of maintaining the household, but she's quite inexperienced with children. I need someone who can handle that aspect of things, while Mrs Watson, er." He coughed. "Recovers."

The old woman's face sagged even more than Watson thought possible. "Your wife's ill, sir?"

Watson nodded. "She experienced a terrible fever," he said quietly. "It has left her... incapacitated."

"The poor little duck," said the old woman, shaking her head. Watson was not offended by the coarse endearment, for he could sense the woman's sincerity behind it.

Mrs Porter arrived with the tea, and Watson was grateful for the interruption. He sent her away and busied himself with pouring, offering the old woman a cup "Sugar?"

"Never touch the stuff," she said, taking a delicate sip. "Very nice, sir."

Watson smiled. "Now then," he said. "Let's get down to business-"

"Begging your pardon, sir," the old woman interrupted, "but would you mind closing them curtains?" She squinted at him sheepishly. "A bit bright for me old eyes."

"Oh." Watson frowned. " Of course." He rose and went to the windows. "I do hope you're not too sensitive to light, however," he said, drawing the curtains as he spoke. "I had hoped for a nursemaid that might take the child on outings, and I have heard that the sun does occasionally shine on London when the mood strikes it."

He turned back to the old woman, hoping his little joke had softened the criticism, and stopped, for the old woman had disappeared.

Sitting in her place instead, and drinking her tea, was Sherlock Holmes.

--

He looked no different than he had three years before, though perhaps a bit browner and better-fed. His sense of style remained the same, however: Watson could see his mismatched socks, and of course he was still clean-shaven, with no proper hat or coat in sight. The disguise that had magically transformed him from his usual, handsome self into a wizened old crone, lay on the floor at his feet.

"My God."

Holmes smirked and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the table. "A bit blasphemous a nickname, don't you think?" he said. He sat back in the chair and sipped at his tea. "Really, just Holmes will suffice."

Watson gripped the back of a chair for support. "You..." He could not finish his sentence. His legs shook, then went out from under him completely and the floor rushed up to meet him. A fog as thick as anything off the Thames enveloped him, and he was vaguely aware of a shout and footsteps, before there was nothing at all.

What seemed like moments later Watson opened his eyes and found Holmes standing over him, eyes wide with concern and curiosity. "Welcome back, old friend," said Holmes. Watson allowed himself to be pulled up off the floor and installed into the nearest chair. "I do not think you hit your head, but you must tell me if you feel at all injured. I am not the doctor you are, but I'm certain your housekeeper would be happy to fetch one if you should have the need."

"I've gone mad," said Watson quietly. "It has finally happened. The strain of it all - Mary, everything - has driven me insane." He looked at Holmes. "You seem so real, to be standing here, lecturing me about my head. I _must_ be mad."

Holmes snorted. "We are all mad, here," he said. "But you are no more mad than most. I am indeed here, Watson, in your sitting room. You do not imagine me."

"Shut up," snapped Watson. "I _do_ imagine you. I have imagined you sitting in that chair - any chair - in this house a thousand times. I have imagined you appearing on my doorstep at all hours. I have imagined your voice, your violin, the smell of your cigarettes. For _three years_." He stared hard at Holmes. "How is this hallucination any more real than the others which have plagued me _since your death_?"

"My dear Watson." Holmes's voice was oddly quiet and contrite. He rose and crossed the room, kneeling before Watson and placing a hand on his arm. "I am so sorry," he said urgently, "to have aggrieved you so."

Watson shook his head. "You wounded me," he said. "I thought you dead, and I thought part of my heart dead as well."

Holmes sighed and squeezed Watson's arm. "I would have you listen to my tale. I would tell you everything that has transpired since that day at the Falls. I would- I would hope that you would understand."

"It is doubtful," said Watson evenly, "that I shall ever understand. But I will allow you to explain yourself, if only so I have a better reason to throw you out on your ear."

"Of course," said Holmes with a small smile. "If I fail to impart my story in a manner that convinces you entirely that I did not mean to harm you in any way, you may exact any form of revenge that you wish."

Watson was quiet for a moment. "If you are not convincing enough, I shall shoot you," he said. "Then I shall save your life, so that I may shoot you again."

Holmes grinned. "I would only deserve it," he said. And he began to speak.

--

When he had finished, the tea had long been cold and what little sun beyond the curtains had set. Watson said nothing at first. He stared at the teakettle for a long moment, turning Holmes's story over and over in his mind.

"Well," he said finally, looking up at Holmes. "It seems I won't be shooting you. At least not at this time."

Holmes smiled, but Watson could see some relief in it. "A statement any man would be most pleased to hear," he said. "You do understand, Watson, don't you?"

"To an extent." Watson stood and went to the window, parting the curtains to observe the rain falling steadily against the glass. "I still do not believe that you couldn't have sent even the shortest letter. Any kind of correspondence, Holmes, would have been welcome."

"My dear friend," said Holmes. "If you only knew the number of times I took up the pen and began to write you. I wished to tell you of the sunset in Lhasa, the smell of wildflowers in Italy, the _dreadful_ attire of the French whores-"

Watson interrupted him. "I do not care to hear about any of those things," he said, with no small amount of bitterness. "Just a note to say that you were _alive_ would have been far more interesting than a missive of your trip to the opera with the Pope himself!"

"And I apologise that I could not oblige you that information. You had to think me dead," said Holmes. "It was the only way to ensure that accounts of my demise would be completely convincing." He looked at Watson gravely. "And to be certain that those that would harm me would have no reason to come looking for you. For you to believe me dead so completely, no one would have any cause to think you might know something that you don't."

"You were protecting me," said Watson. The anger, the betrayal, was slowly leaving him, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face. "Why have you returned, then?" he asked. "Why now?"

There was a silence. Holmes seemed to be weighing his words carefully. "I was... concerned."

"Concerned?"

"For you." Holmes studied him. "You have had some bereavement in my absence, unrelated to my actions."

Watson nodded. "How did you know?"

"Only one knew of my continued existence," said Holmes. "My brother, Mycroft. I depended upon him to send me funds, allowing me to travel and remain hidden from my pursuers. Mycroft did his part admirably, but as is his nature..." Holmes laughed, suddenly. "My brother has an innate ability to know when to meddle in the affairs of others, and when not to. He did not question my need to disappear into the world for a while, and for that I am grateful. I am also grateful that in our last correspondence, he did not just send along money but a newspaper clipping."

Holmes reached into his pocket and withdrew a much-battered piece of paper. "An advertisement for the position of nursemaid," he explained. "Inquire to Doctor John H. Watson, Kensington." He set the paper on the table, next to his teacup. "From this I was able to devise that your family had expanded, for which you are to be congratulated. I also deduced that something was amiss, as Mrs Watson had been employed as a governess before marrying you, and she would be well-versed in the care and raising of a child."

"You have an excellent memory," said Watson blandly. "It is true that Mary wished to raise the child herself. She did not even wish for a housekeeper, until I insisted upon it."

"I contacted Mycroft immediately, and he reported that while he did not know the specifics, he did know that he had recently spotted you in Surrey." At Watson's frown, Holmes smiled. "I may or may not have engaged him to keep watch upon you, to ensure you were sound and in good health."

"Your brother spied on me."

"Not to put too fine a point on it," said Holmes, with a dismissive wave. "At any rate, he informed me that he'd seen you boarding a train bound for Surrey. He followed, and when he informed me that you'd departed at the Virginia Water station, I knew immediately that the situation was dire indeed. For that is where the Holloway Sanatorium is located, and the only thing in Virginia Water that might require your presence."

Watson winced.

Holmes's voice softened. "So, she is there," he said. He expressed no sympathy, as was Holmes's manner, but the sentiment hid behind his words.

"The fever," said Watson. "She became ill during the birth. The surgeon overseeing her care - it was not I, I could not bear to see her in such pain - said it was a very high fever. Delirium followed, and then stupor. She never recovered." He sighed and covered his eyes with one hand. "I kept her at home for as long as I was able, but after a month of it her care proved too much for me and Mrs Porter, who has no experience as a proper nurse. I made the decision to place her at Holloway, for her sake." He paused. "And my own."

"A noble decision," said Holmes. At Watson's grimace he rose and crossed the room, standing beside his friend with a hand on his shoulder. "Do not punish yourself for the most difficult decisions, Watson. It serves no purpose, and certainly no one blames you."

"I blame me," said Watson quietly. "I have abandoned her."

"Sometimes," said Holmes, "abandonment is really the best decision that can be made, when you care for someone so deeply."

Watson said nothing for a moment. Then, "Would you like to see her?"

Holmes started. "Mrs Watson?" he asked, confusedly.

"My daughter," said Watson.

"I would be honored," said Holmes. "I was not aware she was here."

Watson shook his head. "Come," he said. "She is in the nursery."

He led Holmes up the stairs. It was decorated richly in greens and yellows, a neutral color scheme Mary had spent months happily selecting. The rocking chair remained by the window, used by the wet-nurse during visits and Watson in the night, when holding his child seemed the only successful balm for the pain of his loneliness and grief.

"Here," he said softly, directing Watson to the cot against the far wall. In it, his daughter slept soundly with a blissful ignorance Watson envied greatly. "This is my daughter, Mary."

Holmes peered into the cot. "She looks sound," he said after a moment. "And a bit like a veal roast."

Watson laughed gently. "I thought lamb, myself." He busied himself straightening her little duvet. "I have a wet-nurse who lives upstairs, you have not met her. She is a fine nurse but is not willing to remain permanently as nursemaid, hence my advertisement." He touched the child's head with two fingers, marveling at the soft skin and fine, brown hair. "Mary was too far gone, so the duty of our child's name fell to me. I did not have to think twice on it."

"Her name is quite appropriate," said Holmes, still staring at the child, as if trying to pull apart the puzzle of her existence and reconstruct it. "I'm sure Mrs Watson would be pleased."

"I would hope," said Watson. "But to be quite honest I do not use the name. The pain is too dear. I prefer to call her by her middle name, most of the time."

"Which is?"

Watson did not look at him, instead keeping his eyes on the baby. "Violet," he said.

Holmes was completely silent. At first Watson thought he might be offended. "I've never cared for my mother's name," he said quickly. "It's a bit too old-fashioned for a modern child. Mary was not fond her mother's, either." He paused. "Violet is a lovely name, I think."

"Watson, I..." Holmes, for once, seemed at a loss. "It _is_ lovely. It suits her well."

"I am glad you think so," said Watson. At that moment, the baby stirred and her eyes flicked open. "Well, there now. She seems to know that she has a new audience."

Holmes said nothing. He studied the child as he might a crime scene, or tracks in the mud. When the baby gave a little cry he started, and Watson could not help but chuckle as he reached in and lifted the baby from her cot, cradling her carefully and cooing into her ear. The baby wriggled, yawned and immediately calmed, her eyes drifting closed once again.

"You handle her as a natural mother might," observed Holmes.

Watson gave him a wan little smile. "Baptism by fire, I'm afraid," he said. "When Mrs Porter and Mrs Trimble - her wet-nurse - are otherwise engaged, it falls to me to look after her. My practice has suffered a bit for it, but I am not bothered." He looked down at the top of the baby's head. "In fact, I often wonder why most men leave this to women. I find fatherhood quite agreeable."

"I am not surprised," said Holmes. "For you have proven yourself a natural caregiver over the years. I have certainly benefited from it."

Watson looked at Holmes. "That is quite the compliment," he said softly. "I hadn't thought you'd noticed."

"Oh, foolish Watson," said Holmes lightly. "I notice _everything_."

--

Later, Watson showed Holmes where he could sleep.

"Is this not where you sleep?" said Holmes, gazing around the sparse bedroom. "No," he corrected himself. "This room has been emptied. There were paintings on those walls." He pointed to places where the wallpaper had darkened in square shapes of varying sizes. "And there was a vanity under that window, at one time."

"This was our bedroom," said Watson. "I have moved my things into what was a guest room, across the hall."

"Ah." Holmes eyed the bed. "So this is where Mrs Watson took ill."

"It is." Watson fidgeted. "If you are uncomfortable here, you may take my room. I can sleep in the sitting room - it would not be the first time." He tried to smile.

"Nonsense," said Holmes. "I will be perfectly fine in here." He turned to look at Watson. "I fear I have not properly expressed my condolences, my friend. You have suffered greatly and it is clear to me that you continue to suffer, albeit in your traditionally stoic manner."

Watson nodded. "Your concern is appreciated," he said, a little wearily. "I am fairing all right."

Holmes shook his head. "You're not, but I will forgive you the lie, for it is late."

"It was not a lie," Watson began, but he did not continue. He knew better, and he knew Holmes knew better. "You're right. It is late. I will say goodnight now, and see you in the morning. I should like to leave for Holloway before nine."

"Nine it is," said Holmes, shrugging out of his waistcoat and braces. "Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight, Holmes."

Once safely in the spare room, Watson sat down hard on the small bed and dropped his head into his hands. His mind spun with thoughts too loud and too close together to sort out. For a moment, Watson considered fetching something from his office, one of the little bottles that would certainly calm his thrumming heart and head. He was loathe to abuse his medicines for selfish reasons, but he could not imagine being able to sleep while he felt so wretched.

In the end, he did not go to his office. Instead he undressed and lay back on the uncomfortable little bed, staring up at the ceiling. He wondered which creak of the floorboards was Holmes moving about, or merely the house settling for the night. Holmes, he knew, would not immediately go to sleep. He would instead make a game of inspecting his surroundings, to find little clues into the last three years of Watson's life. Tomorrow, on the train, Holmes would treat Watson to a lecture on what he had found and surmised from it. And Holmes, being Holmes, would inevitably be right.

Comforted by the thought of such normalcy, Watson closed his eyes and, eventually, he slept.

--

'Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.' - Lord George Gordon Byron

--

Holmes (in a new disguise, that of an aging clergyman that smelled strongly of spirits and brazenly ogled ladies in passing) was uncharacteristically silent the next morning on the train to Surrey. He'd been vaguely conversational but distracted at breakfast but Watson could sense there was something weighing on his friend's mind. Watson knew to leave well enough alone. Whatever it was that Holmes was contemplating would either be shared, eventually, if it were important enough, or forgotten once Holmes had worked it out. Another little slice of normalcy that Watson was too grateful for to tamper with.

It did not, however, prevent Watson from doing a little deduction of his own. While pretending to read the newspaper he observed Holmes, noting that his left hand stayed in the pocket of his coat. A gentle tinkling sound, such as the sound of fingernails against something made of glass, suggested that he held a small bottle, and that whatever was in the bottle was what Holmes was thinking about.

It could not contain liquid, surmised Watson, for it would not make such a hollow sound when worried by Holmes's fingers. He then considered that perhaps the bottle had no meaning, that it was just something to keep Holmes's hand busy while he thought of something unrelated. A nervous habit, perhaps picked up while traveling.

A silly thought, Watson mused. Nothing Holmes did was ever truly unrelated to thoughts buzzing through the bee's hive of his mind.

"Do you think," said Watson, once he'd finished his newspaper and the silence became unbearable, "that Violet will be quite all right in our absence?"

"Of course," said Holmes. "Mrs Hudson was a governess before I knew her as landlady, and she quite enamored of little Violet. I daresay she would consider caring for a baby something of a holiday from looking after me." He smiled across at Watson, but Watson could see that the smile did not reach his eyes.

"Something troubles you," said Watson. "You need not tell me what it is, if that is your wish, but perhaps I could be of some assistance."

Holmes shook his head. "I'm quite all right, my friend," he said, a little too quickly. "You have more important things to consider today." He looked out the window. "What made you select Holloway?"

Watson pretended not to notice his unusually-clumsy change of the subject. "Mary has always loved the country," he said with a sigh. "And Holloway is a new facility with a sterling reputation, not to mention the superintendent is an old colleague of mine." He looked down at his hands. "The staff are excellent."

"You have done very well by her," said Holmes. "It will be nice to see her."

"No," said Watson softly. "It is never nice to see her. Not now."

They spent the rest of the trip in silence, and this time Watson did not try to break it again. As always when he went to see his wife, the closer they drew to their destination the worse he felt. By the time the train pulled into the Virginia Water station Watson's heart felt as though it were lodged in his throat, leaving his chest empty. He stumbled as they exited the train, and Holmes caught him by the elbow.

"Steady, my friend," said Holmes. He did not let go until they had reached a waiting cab that would take them the rest of the way up to the hospital.

For as much as Watson dreaded visiting, Holloway Sanatorium was a beautiful establishment. A red brick, Gothic affair that sprawled atop a hill overlooking the village, it was a triumph of design and offered all the creature comforts a patient could hope for. Watson regretted that Mary was in no condition to appreciate the beauty of her surroundings, for she would have dearly loved the gardens, which were in full bloom, an explosion of cheerfulness that mocked Watson's misery as they entered the hospital.

A young man greeted them at the registration desk and offered to take them to Mary's room, but Watson declined. He had no need for an escort, for he knew the route by heart, and he did not enjoy the looks of sympathy and pity from the staff. He led Holmes up the stairs and through the magnificent corridors. Watson appreciated that unlike most hospitals he knew, this one was decidedly absent of patients lingering in the halls. They were all otherwise engaged, either strolling or being guided through the grounds, or enjoying books in the library, or resting in their rooms. There was no mindless idleness, no neglect. No one here was forgotten.

Mary's room was a bright, clean place. The curtains were open, letting in spring sunlight, and one window cracked slightly to allow for birdsong. The bed was against one wall, and in it lay Mary, looking as pale and drawn as ever. Her unseeing eyes were fixed upon nothing in particular, and her chest rose and fell feebly as she breathed.

"Good morning, darling," said Watson, pulling up a chair beside her bed. "I've brought you a visitor." He looked over at Holmes. "It's Holmes. He's come back to us."

Holmes said nothing. He looked at Mary and the expression on his face was a stricken one. The color drained from his cheeks, and for a moment Watson wondered if he might faint.

"Holmes?"

"Dear God..." Holmes's voice was rough, and it broke on the blasphemy. "This is... much worse than I had imagined." He looked at Watson. "I had hoped she might not be as far gone as you insinuated."

Watson shook his head. "Mind yourself," he said quietly. "It is possible she hears us." He looked back at Mary. "You're looking well, my darling. I've brought a book, and I would read to you, if you like."

He took from his pocket a copy of _The Moonstone_. "We shall pick up where we left off, then?" he said, opening it to the page that he had marked. He began to read, and soon forgot that Holmes was even in the room. He concentrated on the story and the tone of his voice, hoping for the most comforting balance, something that might reach wherever Mary was.

After several chapters, he closed the book. "I hope you enjoyed that," he murmured, bending to kiss Mary's forehead. Her skin was cool against his lips. "We'll finish it next time, and I'll bring something new."

"Watson." Holmes was at the window. "There's something we need to discuss."

Watson frowned and pocketed his book. He rose and joined Holmes at the window. "What is it?" he asked, in a hushed tone. "If this is too much for you-"

"Has your wife been thoroughly examined?" asked Holmes. "By a doctor."

"I am a doctor," said Watson irritably. "And yes, she has been examined. Of course she has. Why would you ask that?"

Holmes glanced at him, and his hand shot into his pocket again. The bottle - Watson was certain it was a bottle, now - tinkled merrily against his twitching fingers. "Physically, I mean. Have you - forgive me for being vulgar - inspected her body?"

"_Holmes_-"

"Specifically, were there any marks upon her skin?" Holmes looked past Watson, to Mary on the bed. "Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"

Watson hesitated. "I... was not her attending physician for Violet's arrival. I did not feel I could be objective, so I sent for assistance." He shook his head. "I have only been her husband, and I have not acted as a doctor toward her in any fashion. It is too difficult."

"Understood," said Holmes. "The clinical detachment needed would have been impossible for you." He paused. "Would it still be impossible?"

"What are you asking me, Holmes?"

"I have reason to believe that if we were to examine your wife, we would find evidence to contradict that she was stricken with puerperal fever."

Watson blanched. "Wh-what?" he stammered. "What else could it have been?"

Holmes frowned. "I do not wish to give you false hope, should I be mistaken. Send for a nurse, and we shall see if my hypothesis is in fact correct."

A nurse was called, and it took some convincing for her to undress Mary with Holmes present. Eventually she agreed provided he remained across the room with his back turned. Watson, being the husband, was permitted to assist, though it was extremely difficult to lift Mary from the bed so that the nurse could remove her nightgown. Mary's body was so light and fragile, and Watson felt as though he had the most delicate sort of bird in his arms. One wrong move and he could break her, or she could float away completely.

He and the nurse set to examining Mary's skin. Watson had not been aware of how emaciated she had become, and it brought tears to his eyes to see her strong legs reduced to skin and bone. He blinked through them and ran a shaking hand across her shin, acutely aware of the friction of his fingerprints against the light, brown hair there.

"Sir," said the nurse softly. "Look here."

Watson looked. Under the nurse's finger, just below Mary's navel, was a small, round scar of blackened skin, no bigger than a pin-head. An injection site at first glance, perhaps infected but then healed, but upon further scrutiny Watson knew it was something else entirely. "Holmes," he called. "You should see this."

The nurse was appalled. "Your wife is not decently dressed, sir!" she exclaimed. "I could not allow it!"

Watson looked at her and smiled gently. "It is all right," he said. "We need to know what this mark indicates, and I am not as schooled in such matters as he. Also, can you not see that he is a harmless old clergyman?"

"Ain't nothing harmless about him, sir," said the nurse.

"Nevertheless, I require his assistance, and you will allow it." He looked over and waved at Holmes. "Quickly."

Holmes approached without delay as the nurse sputtered and threw linens over as much of Mary's exposed skin as she could. "Look, there," said Watson, pointing at the mark. "What do you make of this?"

"It is as I feared," said Holmes. He glanced at the nurse, who regarded him with no small amount of fury, then turned back to Watson. "You may redress her, if only so your nurse does not become apoplectic. Then we shall discuss what has truly befallen Mrs Watson."

The nurse shooed him away and they worked to make Mary decent once again. When she was dressed and arranged against the pillows once more, Watson excused the nurse with the promise that his companion would not commit any further acts of indecency. She left, but not without a final glare in Holmes's direction.

"I've made no friend of her," said Holmes. "I imagine she is already regaling the entire hospital with the story of the indecent reverend."

Watson ignored the joke. "What have you discovered?"

Holmes withdrew his hand from his pocket. In it he held the bottle Watson had suspected, but he was not prepared for the contents. "What on earth-"

"This is the culprit, I am afraid," said Holmes, shaking the bottle slightly. The mangled corpse of a large, black spider rattled around inside. "I found this on the floor of the bedroom last night."

Watson stared. "A spider?" he said, incredulously.

"Not just any spider," said Holmes. "I will have to call upon an expert to be certain, but I am certain that this is no kind of spider naturally found in the British Isles, and it absolutely had no business being in your bedroom."

"How on earth?"

Holmes did not immediately reply. He looked nervous, uncertain - two things Watson did not readily associate with him - and even a little guilty. "We'll leap off that bridge when we arrive to it," was all that he said. "You'd best make your goodbyes. We need to return to London immediately." He glanced at Mary, then looked at Holmes. "I will wait for you at the entrance, so that you may have some privacy."

He left before any protest could be made. Watson went to Mary's beside and looked at her for a moment before touching her hair. He leaned in to kiss her cheek.

"Sleep well," he whispered into her ear. "My darling."

--

"Tell me, Holmes, what you are thinking."

They were back on the train, returning to London. Holmes had the spider-in-a-bottle in his hand, turning it over and over, studying it. "I am thinking too many things to list," he said without looking up. "We need to know what sort of spider this is, so as to deduce its origins."

Watson fidgeted in his seat. "I do not understand," he said. "I do not understand what any of this means."

Holmes looked at him. "Forgive me, dear friend, but what can you tell me of that terrible night?"

"You mean, the night Violet was born? When Mary took so ill?"

"Yes."

With a deep breath Watson sat back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling of their carriage. "Mary's pains began early in the morning," he said. "I attempted to assist her, with Mrs Porter of course, but it became apparent very quickly that I was too nervous to be of any use. I sent Mrs Porter to fetch a colleague of mine."

"And this colleague?"

"Doctor Gerard Forsythe," said Watson. "But he was not available. He had been called away on an emergency out of the city, so in his stead came an acquaintance of his, he said. A surgeon named..." Watson frowned. "Hayward, I believe. He had a curious accent, but he seemed extremely competent."

"What sort of accent?" Holmes asked. "Foreign?"

Watson nodded. "But completely fluent in English, in that I do believe it was his first language."

"American."

"Possibly." Watson leaned against the window and watched the trees pass by. "I was not present for the birth. Hayward handled everything. I heard Violet's first cry, but Hayward did not emerge immediately. When he did, it was to tell me that Mary had become seriously ill."

Holmes looked thoughtful. "Delusional, fever, and difficulty breathing."

"Why, yes!" Watson stared at him.

"All things that can be attributed to puerperal fever," said Holmes. "Or a spider's bite."

"Holmes," said Watson. "Do you suspect that Hayward may have-"

"I suspect many things," said Holmes. "I can only hope that I am wrong."

"You are rarely, if ever, wrong," said Watson.

Holmes nodded, and looked almost sad. "Indeed," was all that he said.

Upon their arrival in London, Holmes excused himself to send a quick telegram, then accompanied Watson back to Kensington. Violet was in good humour, as was Mrs Hudson, who upon Watson's return remarked that she had never encountered such a pleasant baby.

"She has a certain amount of charm," said Watson. "Inherited from her mother."

"I am certain," said Holmes, in passing as he went to the brandy, "that a goodly portion of her charm comes directly from the paternal line."

He busied himself pouring, thankfully, so that Watson was not embarrassed to blush at the compliment.

Mrs Hudson put Violet to bed and left for the evening, leaving Holmes and Watson in the sitting room. It felt strange, somewhat like old times but not very much like it at all. They were not in Baker Street, and while there was indeed a mystery brewing before them it was not one Watson felt would be much fun to solve. He was not even certain he wanted to be involved, though he knew he likely had little choice in the matter.

He thought of the black mark on Mary's body. "Holmes, what do you know of that spider you discovered?"

"Not as much as I should like," said Holmes, reclining in his chair and pulling the bottle from his pocket again. "It is most certainly venomous, but it is not native. There is the distinct possibility it was an accidental passenger on a ship bearing goods from another country, but for a spider such as this to scamper from the docks to a comfortable residence in Kensington seems rather fanciful to me."

"Indeed," said Watson.

"I have sent a telegram to an arachnologist I know of, an acquaintance of several esteemed members of the Royal Entomologist Society, and I hope that my description of the spider may be enough for him to tell us exactly what it is, and where it might have come from." He studied the thing for a moment. "I've certainly never seen one like it."

"Nor have I." Watson peered at it from where he sat. "The spiders I have encountered while in the tropics were much larger, though this one, while small, is no less sinister-looking." Watson shuddered involuntarily. "To think that was in our bedroom!"

Holmes pocketed the bottle again. "It will do us no good to dwell on the matter. We will have to wait for a reply to my telegram." He looked at Watson. "Mrs Watson looked... well."

"You are no kind of liar, Holmes," said Watson. "She has lost too much weight. They feed her as best they can, but she is unresponsive and so it becomes difficult to get her the proper amount of nourishment. She gets no exercise. She cannot even sit upright without assistance." He shook his head. "Her doctors and I agree that there is likely damage to her brain. She may never recover."

"What will you do?"

Watson shrugged. "What can I do, Holmes? I have made her as comfortable as I can. The best I can hope for is for her to go to sleep one night, and not wake up again. Isn't that a terrible thing? To hope not for her recovery, but for her death? What kind of a husband am I?"

Holmes was quiet for a moment. "A loving one."

There was no reply Watson could think of for that. "Will you be staying on tonight again, then?" he said instead.

"If you would have me."

"Of course." Watson smiled. "The company is welcome. But why won't you return to Baker Street?"

"It is still too dangerous," said Holmes. "There are those who would do me considerable harm. In truth I should not be here, in your house, but I have taken great care to conceal my return to London so I do not believe we are in any danger here."

"You're speaking of course of Moriarty's assistants."

"There is only the one that remains, and yes." Holmes nodded. "I believe I have a method of taking care of the situation, but that can wait. I would much rather sort out the issue of this spider, and your wife's condition, before attending to my own problems."

Watson smiled. "That's most chivalrous of you," he said. "Putting aside the threat of your own murder for my sake."

"If I were to do nothing but prevent my own demise," said Holmes, as he took out a cigarette, "I would never accomplish _anything_ else."

--

**'In these matters the only certainty is that nothing is certain.' - Pliny the Elder**

--

The next morning brought a reply to Holmes's telegraph. Watson emerged from his bedroom to find Holmes already seated at breakfast, dressed in clothes obviously pilfered from Watson's own wardrobe, and reading the correspondence with increasing agitation. "I knew it!" he cried. He looked up. "Watson, I'm afraid that this telegraph brings both good and tragic news."

"Do explain," said Watson as he sat down to his sausages. He could hear the wet-nurse in the kitchen with Violet, who burbled in good spirits. "And mind that you do not dribble on that shirt. I am fond of it."

"The spider I discovered is, according to our esteemed arachnologist, a _latrodectus hesperus_, or as it is colloquially known, a 'black widow'. It is found mainly in America, particularly in the western part of the country. A dangerous, venomous creature whose bite leaves a black mark upon the body, and can cause fever and fits."

Watson nearly dropped his teacup. "How in the world did it end up in my bedroom?"

Holmes put down the paper and bit into a sausage. "My suspicions are likely correct in that your American-sounding surgeon may have brought it with him."

"Accidentally?"

"That is what I hope to discern, when we find this Hayward fellow and interrogate him." He polished off his sausage and then reached across the table with his fork to spear one of Watson's. "Your girl is a remarkable cook."

Watson pushed his plate away. "Help yourself," he said. "I've quite lost my appetite."

Holmes shot him a sympathetic look. "It very well may be an accident, my dear boy."

"Spiders from thousands upon thousands of miles away are not usually accidents, Holmes," said Watson bitterly. "If it was here, then it was carried here. Preserved. And set upon my wife. I wish to know why."

"Then we will find out," said Holmes, and he quickly ate the rest of the sausage.

Holmes quickly donned a new disguise (a bearded, portly professor in possession of a snarled white beard) and joined Watson for the walk to the offices of Dr Gerard Forsythe.

"I do not think Forsythe would wish me ill," said Watson. "He was a friend at school, and I attended his wedding."

Holmes nodded and adjusted his long, white beard. "It is quite probable that these events occurred without his knowledge. You did say he was away that night?"

Watson nodded. "He was called away to an emergency, as far as I know. I did not ask specifics. I have not seen him since just before I took Mary to Holloway, and in my state of mind then I had little interest in what he had been doing."

"Understandable."

They arrived at a smart house on a quiet, tree-lined street just north of where Watson lived. A housekeeper answered the bell and led them into the drawing room. Dr Forsythe entered soon after, a tall, clean-shaven man with a Roman profile. "Doctor Watson!" he exclaimed, grasping Watson's hand and shaking it eagerly. "It is a pleasure. Who is your friend?"

"May I present Professor Farnsworth," said Watson, gesturing toward Holmes. "He is an old acquaintance from my Army days."

"Delighted," said Forsythe, shaking Holmes's hand. "Any friend of Watson's is a friend of mine. Sit, both of you." He waved them toward two comfortable chairs. "Brandy?"

Watson shook his head. "No, thank you. Forsythe, I was hoping you might be able to shed a little light on something that has been troubling me for some time."

Forsythe sat and regarded Watson curiously. "Of course, dear boy. What can I do for you?"

"The surgeon," said Watson. "Hayward, the one sent in your stead to tend to my wife."

"Oh," said Forsythe. His face fell. "Watson, from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry I was not there that night."

Watson smiled a little. "Don't think on it further, Forsythe. I would just like to know a bit more about Hayward. We did not get much chance to talk when he was there, and I have not seen him since."

"It was a curious thing, that whole affair. Shall I tell you of the story of how I came to be called away that night?"

"Of course."

"I was here, in my sitting room, enjoying my nightcap and newspaper, when there came someone at the bell. My housekeeper led in a smartly-dressed man, an American, who introduced himself as Mr Henry Hayward. He gave me his card. He told me that he'd been sent to request my presence at a difficult case in Wales, of all places. Surely, I asked him, there were competent doctors in Wales! He told me I had been requested by name, and he produced a train ticket meant for me."

"How odd," said Watson. He glanced at Holmes, who watched Forsythe with narrow-eyed concentration. "Do go on."

"Well, I told him that I could not very well up and leave, for I have patients of my own! I also knew that Mrs Watson was fast approaching her time and I wished to be available for it. He offered to remain and act in my stead, and said that the patient awaiting me in Wales was in terrible condition. He was extremely well-spoken, and the train ticket and card seemed to be in order, so I went. I felt it was my duty to go to a patient who desired me by name."

Watson nodded. "A doctor's first duty is to his patients, of course."

Forsythe stood and went to the window. "Imagine my shock, Watson, when I arrived in Cardiff and took a cab to the given address. I found a man, alone in the front room of an empty house, with two bullets in his legs!"

"What!" Holmes jolted upright and, for a moment, Watson feared he might throw off his disguise. Instead, he regained control of himself and hunkered down again, affecting a growling Yorkshire accent. "Go on!"

"I've no idea," said Forsythe. "I repaired the man, of course, who would not say who had done this to him. All he would say is that he'd been brought there, shot and told to wait for the man who might treat him."

"This is astounding," said Watson. "Why did you not tell me of this?"

"Forgive me, my friend, but I did not want to burden your mind with such strange tales. You have suffered so greatly, it seemed cruel to add to it with mysterious Welshmen with bullet wounds. I only wish I had said no, sent Mr Hayward on his way and come to your wife when she needed me."

"It is all right, Forsythe," said Watson. "You had no way of knowing what would happen. Now, this Hayward, you said he was American?"

"His card indicated that he practiced in San Francisco, but he certainly wasn't born there. He wore a ring from Oxford, as a matter of fact."

Watson sat back in his chair. "I wonder what it all means," he mused aloud, to no one in particular. He looked at Holmes, who looked back with the expression of a man who has heard everything he needed to know, in order to know their next move. Watson nodded and stood. "Thank you, Forsythe. This has been most enlightening."

"I'm sorry I did not tell you sooner," said Forsythe, rising and shaking their hands again. "Give my best to Mrs Watson, God save her. She was a delight."

They made their way to the door when Forsythe touched Watson's shoulder. "There is one other place you might look, if you want to know more about Hayward. Not more than a month ago, I saw him coming out of the Bagatelle Card Club."

Holmes began to cough violently. Watson turned to look at him and understood that this was a signal to leave, at once. "Dr Farnsworth, I'd best get you home," he said, taking Holmes by the elbow. "Thank you, Forsythe. I will certainly look into that. Your assistance is appreciated."

When they were safely a block away, Holmes shed all but the outer layer of his disguise. "Everything is coming together," he said, in his normal voice. He walked too fast for Watson not to have to jog slightly to keep up. "We must get to your house immediately. And then I must leave."

"Leave?!" Watson exclaimed. He reached out and grabbed Holmes by the arm. "Where are you going?"

"Away." Holmes wrenched himself free. "From you. From Violet. From everything that has suffered for the knowing of me." He looked furious for a moment. "I should never have returned. I should never have- I should have let myself be pulled into the Falls."

Watson gaped. "What a thing to say! Holmes, it grieved me once to see you dead, and now that you are not I will not have you say you would have preferred it!"

"It would be better for you were I dead!" shouted Holmes. "It would be better for you had we never met in the first place!"

"I have had QUITE enough of death, thank you!" roared Watson. "Do not say another bloody word on the matter, Holmes, or I shall make you regret it! You may be the superior fighter, but you are no match for the fury of a wounded heart!"

He turned and stormed down the street, forgetting his walking-stick on the ground. He did not want to turn around to get it. He did not want to look at Holmes at that moment. They had made enough of a spectacle of themselves in public. Anything that remained could be said behind closed doors, provided Holmes followed him.

He did not look to see if he had.

--

Watson had been sitting in the nursery for several hours before he heard commotion in the hall. He stood carefully, a sleeping Violet in his arms, and went to investigate. He found Holmes in the sitting room, looking disheveled and tired and perhaps a little lost.

"Where have you been?" asked Watson. "You missed a roast."

Holmes turned and looked at him, sheepishly. "I've been lurking about the Bagatelle Card Club," he said. "I went to inquire as to our man Hayward, and I have made several important discoveries."

Watson sat down, cradling Violet against his chest. "Do tell me of them."

"Hayward is indeed an educated doctor. He is also in possession of a rather unfortunate gambling addiction." He cleared his throat, avoiding Watson's gaze. "According to the fellows at his club, who were only too happy to gossip in his absence, his family had gone to California to seek gold. He followed once his education was complete, only to find that the rush had passed. He developed a fondness for American saloons and card games."

He glanced at Watson, to see if he were still listening.

"Eventually," he continued, "he was forced to flee back to England to escape several debts, only to repeat the process here. Through his Oxford connections and family, he managed a membership at the Bagatelle. He is deeply in debt to one of their members, a Colonel Moran."

"Moran," said Watson. "Do you know of this Moran?"

"I know of him," Holmes said, bitterly. "And he knows of me." He looked at Watson. "Can you ever forgive me for what I have done, Watson? Can you ever think of us as friends, when I have brought such pain down upon you?"

Watson frowned. "Whatever are you talking about?"

Holmes sighed and sank into the sofa, a hand over his eyes. "Moran is who I have traveled the world to avoid. He was once Moriarty's accomplice and right-hand man. By dispatching Moriarty, I also eliminated Moran's means of survival and comfort. Moran, naturally, sought revenge - revenge I assumed I could avoid if I did not return to London. Eventually, Moran must have tired of waiting, so he elected to lure me here in the best way that he knew how."

The house was silent. Even the ticking of the clocks seemed subdued. Watson felt his heart beating so that he was afraid it might wake the baby asleep against his chest. He clutched her closer nonetheless. "Go on," he whispered.

"Hayward found himself deeply in debt to Moran, another cards player. Hayward, being all but penniless, offered to do Moran a favor, whatever the favor, to repay his debt. Moran enlisted him in a scheme to bring me back to London. They must have discussed several plans before they hit on the one most certain to work, and that is the plan they carried out. Hayward, loathsome character he is, is still a doctor. He'd had a small practice in San Francisco, mostly treating the miners from the hills. His most often ailment was, as you might guess, insect and snake bites. It was this that gave him the idea of using a spider to cause harm, rather than a traditional poison. He requested that his brother, still in California, send him a captive _latrodectus hesperus_, hidden in an otherwise innocent parcel. Once his weapon of choice was acquired, he set about ensuring that he would have the opportunity to use it."

"They deceived Forsythe, tricked him out of London," Watson whispered. "Moran arranged it."

"Yes," said Holmes. "Hayward stepped in and at the proper time, he released the spider upon Mrs Watson. In a bottle, open and upside-down on her skin. The spider was forced to bite. Once it had done so, Hayward cast the spider to the floor and stepped on it, sweeping it under the bed and ensuring that no one would be the wiser. Who would, after all, suspect a _latrodectus hesperus_, from thousands of miles away, which almost no-one in Britain has ever seen? Who would think anything out of the ordinary regarding a poor woman who has succumbed to puerperal fever?"

"Who, indeed," said Watson. He could not look at Holmes. He fixed his gaze upon the grandfather clock against the opposite wall. "Why her, though?" he wondered aloud. "Why not kill me?"

Holmes sighed. "Had they killed you, my dearest friend, I would never have had any reason at all to return to London. I would have remained a ghost, lost to the world." Watson could feel him looking at him, but he did not turn away from the clock. "Killing you, they eliminate my reasons to return. _Hurting_ you, putting you in such grief and suffering, and they can be absolutely certain that I would come back."

Watson stood. "Excuse me," he said. "I should put Violet down for the night." He fled to the nursery and set the baby into her cot, just in time for his legs to give out. He sat down hard in Mary's rocking chair and dropped his face into his hands. He wanted to cry, he could feel tears stinging his eyes, a great sob threatening to crack his chest, but the release would not come.

"John."

The sound of his Christian name in Holmes's voice was a strange one. He heard Holmes shuffle into the room, felt his presence as he knelt beside the chair. One of Holmes's hands found its way to his right knee and squeezed. "I am so deeply, deeply sorry," said Holmes in a whisper. "Believe me when I say that it pains me to the core that I am the cause of all your sorrow."

Watson inhaled deeply and exhaled through his mouth. "None of this is your doing, Holmes," said Watson. "Rather, it is mine."

"How can you say that!" Holmes gripped his knee harder. "You have done nothing."

"I have done everything," Watson said, looking up. "It was I who elected to meet you, that first day, and accept the offer of cohabitation. It was I who, time after time, joined you on your cases. I have never regretted it. I still do not regret it, even as my wife wastes away in an asylum, even as my daughter sleeps there, with no mother to raise her." He fixed Holmes with an infinitely sad expression. "Do you not see how heartless that makes me? That I do not regret anything despite the effects of it? That I do not blame you?"

Holmes swallowed audibly. "I do not think it makes you heartless," he said. "Rather, I think it makes you aware that there is no predicting how things will play out."

"Indeed," said Watson. "A lesson you taught me. Perhaps the most important lesson I've learned from you is to expect the unexpected. And to hide my clothes."

"And yet, I still feel responsible for everything that has befallen you," said Holmes. "They took your wife to ruin you, in order to bait me. And it succeeded."

Watson reached down and covered Holmes's hand on his knee with one of his own. "Then let us bear the responsibility together, and let us see that their ultimate plan is an ultimate failure. Let us have our own revenge."

Holmes smiled. "I absolutely intend to."

--

Watson woke with a start. He thought he'd heard something, but he couldn't be certain. Then he heard it again, the creak of a floorboard, the unmistakable footfalls of someone moving down the hallway and up the stairs. From the dimness in the room he guessed it wasn't quite dawn, far too early for Mrs Porter or Mrs Trimble to be up. It could only be Holmes.

He rose and threw on his dressing gown and slippers and opened his bedroom door. The door across the hall was also open, and Watson could see that the bed, albeit slept in, was empty. He listened carefully for signs of life and upon hearing something stirring down in the sitting room he went to investigate.

He was not prepared to see Holmes seated in one of the armchairs, clad in mismatched pyjamas (the purple bottoms were obviously Holmes's own, but the brown top was ill-fitting and clearly belonged to Watson), Violet resting against his chest. He cradled her carefully if a little awkwardly while murmuring into her ear. The baby wriggled and squawked and sucked on her hand, but her eyes were closed.

"Did she wake you?" Watson said in a whisper. Holmes looked up and, for a moment, seemed embarrassed to have been caught.

"I heard her cry," said Holmes softly. "If I have overstepped my bounds, I apologise."

"No need." Watson entered the room and sat in the chair across from him. "I am only surprised."

"Surprised that I would voluntarily hold an infant?" Holmes smiled. "They are not such terrible creatures. Admittedly my exposure to them is limited, but I imagine that I have some capacity to deal with them. I was a child once myself, you know."

Watson laughed. "You are doing rather well, though you might want to support her head a bit more."

Holmes curled a hand around the back of Violet's head. "Her hair is quite soft," he murmured. "And I do think she may very well have your nose, after all."

"The poor thing," said Watson. He watched Holmes and his daughter for a moment. "You know, Holmes, you might find fatherhood to be a rather interesting adventure, should you ever decide to take it on."

"What?" Holmes looked stricken. "Watson, don't be foolish."

"Is it so foolish to want my friend to find happiness? To consider settling down to marry?"

"The institution of marriage would be far more interesting to me were it not customary to have to live with the woman afterward," said Holmes.

"Surely not all women are so irritating to you."

Holmes made a face. "Actually, I think all women are perfectly noble creatures. It is I and my bad habits that make them irritable and impossible to deal with." He shook his head. "No, I would not burden a woman with a lifetime of my presence. Mrs Hudson only puts up with me because I pay her, and a proper marriage should not be built on such financial arrangements."

"And yet so many marriages are. Certainly royal ones." Watson smirked. He looked at Violet, who had gone back to sleep. "She has taken a shine to you, Holmes. Certainly this is one woman you can't complain about."

"Of course not," said Holmes. "She is pre-verbal, and has the motor-skills of a wicket."

Watson studied his friend for a long moment. "Have you never been in love, Holmes?" he asked.

"I have."

"Oh?" Watson was not prepared for such a quick, honest answer. "Miss Adler?"

Holmes looked pensive. "While I admit to certain feelings for the woman, the word _love_ is not complicated enough to describe them. Certainly, it does not encompass the additional sensation of _deep frustration_ and _loathing_ that she can also inspire in me."

"Well, I suppose that's something."

"I understand your concern, my friend, but please believe me when I say that the idea of marriage holds no interest to me, and I do not think I will be any the worse for it. It suited you and other men, but I am not you, nor am I other men."

"No, you are not," said Watson. "You are a breed of your own, I think."

Holmes beamed. "That may be the kindest compliment you've yet paid me, Watson. Thank you." He adjusted the sleeping babe in his arms. "I also think that it is perfectly noble and acceptable to love without needing to resort to silly ceremony and tradition in order to validate it. I do not need a license to know that I love someone. I do not need to parade through a church to prove it. I am aware of my own feelings, and I do not need the approval nor attention of family or society to be certain of them."

"I never knew you felt so strongly about the subject," said Watson. "I never would have invited you to the wedding, had I known."

"Oh, I enjoy weddings. Who could not enjoy an occasion of free food and wine?" He smiled. "I simply do not desire it for myself."

Watson studied him. "What do you desire, Holmes?"

It took Holmes a moment to answer. "To be sure of someone," he said finally. "Nothing more."

He rose, then. "I will return Violet to her bed, and retire to my own. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Watson, but I must selfishly admit that I was glad you had awakened. The company was welcome."

"Of course. Thank you for tending to Violet." Watson stood. "Goodnight then, Holmes."

"Goodnight, Watson."

Back in his room, Watson shed his dressing gown and lay back in his bed, but he did not immediately close his eyes. Instead he waited and listened, until he heard the floorboards creak in the hall, and the _snick_ of Holmes's door being shut.

It was only then that he was able to sleep.

--

**'Nothing is so dangerous as an ignorant friend.' - Jean de la Fontaine**

--

The next day found them on the first floor of a dark, empty house.

"What are we doing here, Holmes?"

"Quiet." Holmes pulled Watson into the shadows. "Watson, look through the window - don't be seen! - and tell me what you see."

Watson obliged, leaning around Holmes. "I see our old quarters, and- Holmes, is that you in the window?"

"In a sense." Holmes tugged him further into the darkness. "It is a wax dummy of myself I had made for just this purpose, to give the appearance that I am at home and studying in my window. If Moran wishes to find me, then find me he shall. But we shall be prepared for him." He nudged Watson. "Have you your gun?"

"Yes." Watson slipped his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around cold steel. "I am ready."

They waited. Time crawled by with the shadows as the sun crossed the sky. Watson marveled at how Holmes had arranged for Mrs Hudson to secretly move his wax dummy, so that it would appear to move throughout the day.

Then, a sound. Not out on the street, but behind them. Watson turned but Holmes stilled him and shook his head. They watched as a figure made his way up the stairs and to the window, the very window Watson had peered out of earlier. The stranger took out a strange device that resembled a gun, but was unlike any gun Watson had seen before. He prepared it, lifted it to his shoulder and took aim. Watson could feel Holmes stiffen. The moment was nigh.

A whirr, a click and a strange rushing noise, and the sound of broken glass across the street. Holmes sprang into action, tackling the stranger to the floor. The man shouted, rolled over and grasped Holmes by the throat. Holmes made a terrible choking sound and grappled at him, arms flailing.

Watson did not hesitate. He stepped into the light and withdrew his gun. Before he could fire, however, a terrible pain exploded across the back of his head. He fell to his knees with a cry, and through a red haze he looked behind him.

"H-Hayward," he gasped. Sure enough, the surgeon who had tended his wife stood there, a brick in his hand. "You- You-"

A violent cyclone of rage took over Watson's body. With an animalistic roar he launched himself at Hayward, knocking him into the wall.

"The devil take you!" cried Watson. He pinned him down and landed a left hook square against the man's jaw. He did it again, and again, and again. For Mary, for Holmes, for himself. The pain in his head was forgotten, all he could feel was the pain in his heart.

"Watson!"

Holmes's voice brought him swiftly back to reality. He stopped hitting Hayward, whose face was a sea of blood and broken teeth, and rolled off of him. He turned to see Holmes pinning the stranger to the floor, the man's hands pulled awkwardly behind his back.

"Holmes, are you all right?" Watson cried.

"I am perfectly all right, old boy." said Holmes breathlessly. "Are you?"

Watson reached up and felt the back of his head. "I shall have a hell of a headache," he said, looking at the blood on his fingers. "But I seem to be all right."

Holmes took out a whistle and blew it, the shrill sound cutting through Watson's mind, and he winced. In an instant the little room was filled with policemen, and Watson recognized Lestrade. He stood up a bit unsteadily and took a step toward them.

"WATSON!"

Watson whirled around in time to see Hayward, blinded by the blood in his eyes, lurching toward him with the brick. His gun still clutched in his right hand, Watson lifted it and fired. The bullet pierced Hayward in the heart, and the man fell. He was still.

The loud report of the gun made the silence afterward overwhelming. Watson calmly pocketed his gun and regarded the dead man at his feet. "Well," he said, with some difficulty. "That's that."

And then everything went black.

--

Before Watson opened his eyes, he smelled clean linens, brandy and cigarette smoke. Three things that suggested that he was home, in bed, and Holmes was nearby. He was not wrong.

"Gave us a fright, you did," said Holmes, puffing away, a glass of brandy nearby on the nightstand. "Lestrade wanted you in hospital but I convinced him you would be better off at home. He of course did not agree, which only convinced me further that I was right."

"It's appreciated," said Watson. He sat up and immediately regretted it. "My head feels... full of bees."

Holmes chuckled. "I was instructed to give you this for pain," he said, handing Watson two small pills. "Though if you desire something stronger I'm certain I can fetch it for you."

"No," said Watson. "This will suffice." He popped the pills into his mouth and took a drink of Holmes's brandy. "You are unhurt, I expect?"

"My throat is a bit bruised, but I am otherwise unscathed." Holmes paused to light another cigarette. "Hayward is, of course, dead. You acted in self-defence and need not worry about repercussions. Moran is in police custody and the air-gun will go to the Scotland Yard museum."

"Is that what that device was?"

"A remarkable invention. And deadly accurate. My wax doppelganger did not stand a chance, the poor devil." Holmes produced a bullet from his pocket. "Mrs Hudson retrieved this for me."

Watson took it from him. "A soft revolver bullet. Very clever." He handed it back. "So Moran is up for your attempted murder?"

"He has been successful in another murder that I could never tie to him. Not to mention that upon his arrest it was discovered that he was planning to make an attempt on the Vaguely-Honourable Ronald Adair."

"Really!"

Holmes nodded. "Apparently there was a disagreement over a card game."

Watson sank back into the bed. "All this talk of murder and death," he sighed. "Over such ridiculous reasons. A card game. A debt. I am weary of it."

"I can imagine." Holmes puffed away quietly. "I have never seen you display such anger, Watson, as you did when you bludgeoned Hayward with your fist. Do you feel satisfied?"

"In a sense," said Watson. "He is dead, and I have avenged my wife. Mostly however, I feel tired. And my hand hurts."

Wordlessly, Holmes reached over and took Watson's wrecked left hand in his own, thumbs carefully ghosting over the knuckles. "I thought I had taught you better," he said softly. "Do not hit with a clenched fist. It is the way to break fingers. Though none of yours are broken, so that is a relief."

Such a tenderness Watson did not expect from Holmes. He studied him, trying to read the closed expression of his face. "You are free to move about London now, without your disguises," he said. "Where will you go?"

"Home, I expect." He looked at Watson. "I would ask you to come back to Baker Street as well."

Watson winced. "I have Violet now," he said. "Where would you put us? There are only the two bedrooms at Baker Street. There's no place for a nursery."

Holmes nodded. "Of course. A fanciful notion, that we could return to the old days. I merely hoped..." His voice trailed off, and he let go of Watson's hand.

"Holmes?" Watson sat up a bit. "What is it?"

"Forgive me, Watson. I think I am tired." Holmes stood and picked up his brandy glass. "I think I shall retire to my room. I will return to Baker Street in the morning."

He turned to leave. Watson moved too quickly, reaching out to grasp at Holmes's sleeve. The room spun and his head throbbed, but he held fast. "Holmes," he said. "Please."

Holmes paused at the door, but did not turn back. "I do wish you could come back with me," he said quietly. "Because then I could be sure of you."

He pulled free of Watson's grasp and shut the door behind him.

Watson sagged against his pillow. His head hurt too much to think, and the medicine he'd taken was beginning to take effect. As his eyes drifted closed, he wondered if perhaps Holmes had just handed him a rather large clue, something connected to a bigger picture that he was just too blind to see.

He slept.

--

**'There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.' - Homer**

--

Weeks passed since the incident in the empty house. Violet was weaned and Mrs Trimble was replaced by a governess named Mrs Chesterwood. Watson was not overly fond of her, but she did the job for the right amount of pay and it was a relief not to worry about Violet as much as he normally did. It also meant he could return to his practice, and spend more time visiting with Mary.

He had not seen much of Holmes. When it became apparent that the blow to the head combined with the pain tablets had robbed Watson of a good deal of his memory of that awful night, Holmes seemed irritated. As a result Watson kept his distance, not wishing to bring upon his friend any more distress. He busied himself with work, with playing with his daughter, and taking the long train journey out to Holloway.

The trip seemed to take longer every time he made it, and the return trip doubly so. Mary's mental state never changed and her physical health proceeded to decline. On one visit Watson demanded the nurses weigh her, and he was nearly sick when he saw that she was no more than six stone. On the train back to London, he finally resolved himself to see that it was time for Mary's suffering to come to an end.

One day of rare summer warmth, Watson convinced a nurse to let him take Mary out into the garden. They placed her in one of the wheeled chairs, bracing her upright with pillows, and Watson was able to take her down to where the roses grew. He pointed them out to her, knowing full well she could not see them or smell them. It did not stop him. Talking to her took his mind off of what he'd come down intending to do.

When they reached a quiet part of the garden, away from the rest of the world, he knelt down in front of her and took her cold, thin hands in his. "Mary," he whispered. "My sweet Mary." He squeezed her hand gently, afraid to snap the bird-like bones of her fingers. "Please forgive me. I cannot bear to see you this way any longer. I cannot."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a syringe and small, glass bottle.

"You won't feel anything," he told her, as he prepared the injection. "I promise. I would never hurt you. Which is why I cannot let you linger like this. Your mind is gone, my love. You are on an adventure where I cannot follow."

With a shaking hand he took her arm and pushed up the sleeve of her gown. "Forgive me," he said. "Please forgive me."

The needle slid into her skin with no resistance. The liquid passed into her veins. He quickly pocketed the syringe and pressed his thumb to the injection side, to stem any bleeding.

"Go to sleep, my love." He whispered. "Sleep, and be free."

Watson kissed her hand and stood. When he returned her to the nurses, her chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of a deep sleep. He kissed her papery cheek and bade her farewell, and strode quickly to the waiting carriage.

He would be well on his way before she took her last breath.

--

The funeral was on a bright Sunday in June. It was a simple and private affair, as Mary had no relations, but Watson was pleased that several of their closer friends had come to pay their respects. He wore a crisp black suit and Mrs Chesterwood had dressed Violet in a proper mourning dress, though afterward he instructed her that unless they were out in public, Violet was not to wear black in the house.

"We have, all of us, had enough sorrow," he told her. "I do not see the sense in punishing a child with mourning for a mother she has never known."

Whether or not Mrs Chesterwood agreed with his sentiment, she did as she was told, and he appreciated it. He missed Mary, but he did not miss watching her waste away, and he knew deep down that he'd lost her months before her great heart stopped beating. It was time to climb out of grief and start enjoying the gift she'd left him, the gift of her child.

He did temporarily close his practice, in deference to the social demands of mourning. He didn't like being idle, so in between playing with Violet and catching up on correspondence, he decided to start writing his account of Holmes's return. He changed a few details of the entire affair, omitting completely the involvement of his wife and instead putting down that the Honourable Ronald Adair was instead the victim that drew Holmes out of hiding, and fabricating the rest of the mystery from there. He felt that writing everything down verbatim, recording Mary's untimely death for the ages, would only serve as a constant reminder of how he'd failed her, and when Violet grew old enough to read her father's writings, she might not wish to recount how she came to be without a mother. These things, he felt, were too private to become entertainment for strangers.

He left in the bit with the wax dummy, however, as it was quite genius.

Writing about Holmes reminded Watson that Holmes had not been at the funeral. That did not surprise him, as Holmes had a distaste for public mourning. He'd once remarked, when a black, feathered carriage passed them in the street, that he did not understand why people had to make such a spectacle of their emotions. "To make a death into an occasion to see and be seen," he'd said, "to make one's grief into a badge of honor in society, is truly abhorrent. I want no part of it, Watson. When I am dead, if you should wear black and weep and moan for an audience, I will have no choice but to haunt you and break all your crockery. Do not think that I won't!"

The memory made Watson smile, for Holmes could be quite ridiculous (and correct) in his distaste for modern society. He was then suddenly reminded of the conversation they'd had, months ago in Violet's nursery, when Holmes had expressed similar opinions on the subject of marriage. For a man so against the display of affection, Watson mused, he had never known Holmes to withhold it. Surely there had been a few times when he was acutely aware of how Holmes could care for another person, for he had been on the receiving end of it many times. Indeed, Watson believed Holmes was not only a man of emotion but of such deep emotion that it was out of self-preservation that he hid it from the rest of the world.

He frowned, his pen stilled. A minnow of memory struggled through his mind, against the flow of thought. He shut his eyes and tried to capture it, hold it and discover its meaning. It was there, he could see it - a tiny flash of something he knew, something important enough that he had to remember it.

_"Sometimes abandonment is really the best decision that can be made, when you care for someone so deeply."_

_"I am certain that a goodly portion of her charm comes directly from the paternal line." _

_"Killing you, they eliminate my reasons to return. Hurting you, putting you in such grief and suffering, and they can be absolutely certain that I would come back."_

_"I do wish you could come back with me, because then I could be sure of you."_

Watson's eyes flicked open, and the pen fell from his hand. He stared at the words on the paper, his own words, but he did not see them.

How could he have been so _blind_? How, after living with the world's greatest detective for so long, could he have been oblivious to the clues of the greatest mystery to ever play out before his own eyes? The mystery of Holmes's heart?

He scrambled to his feet and all but ran to get his coat and hat. Mourning be damned, he had a call to make.

--

**'How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?' - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

--

Holmes answered the bell himself, Mrs Hudson having gone to bed for the evening. He wore his usual dressing gown, a much-loved and tattered affair that Watson had never liked, and looked quite confused to see a breathless Watson panting at his door.

"Watson?" he exclaimed. He held a book in one hand and a glass of port in the other. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour? You look a fright." He took in Watson black clothing. "You are still in mourning."

"The funeral is only a fortnight past," said Watson, a bit crossly. "Not that you would know."

Holmes frowned. "Of course I know. I was there."

Watson blinked, then sagged against the doorframe and shook his head. "Of course you were there. You are always there, aren't you?"

"You're not making much sense, Watson. Are you drunk?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Watson. "Though I do feel very nonsensical at the moment. Please, may I enter? This is not a conversation to be had out-of-doors."

When they were in the study, Watson went to the window. He could not remember which one had been broken by the bullet, but he surmised it was the pane with the clearest glass. He ran his hand over it. "You wish to be sure of me," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

Watson turned and looked at Holmes. "You invited me back to Baker Street," he said. "Because you wished to be _sure of me_."

Holmes blanched. "Well," he said quickly, "naturally I had hoped we might pick up where we left off. Return to old times. A flight of fancy, of course - you have responsibilities."

"That," said Watson, "is not what you hoped at all. At least, that is not all that you hoped for. You are a great detective, my friend, but you are not a talented liar."

"Watson..." Holmes sat down on the sofa and looked at Watson worriedly. "I am at a loss. If I have angered you-"

"You have not angered me," said Watson. "You have only fooled me into thinking that what you felt for me was merely friendship and nothing more."

Holmes looked more frightened than Watson had ever seen him. No gun, no knife, no threat of torture or death had ever made the detective look so nervous as he did now, facing up to a very inconvenient truth.

"I never... intentionally misled you," said Holmes finally. "If I did, it was by omission, rather than outright lies. I value our partnership, our friendship, and this- this arrangement means a great deal to me. More than you know. I did not wish to drive us apart with revelations of..." Holmes fidgeted with the book in his hands, "... a deeper fondness."

"I never suspected..." Watson wanted to go to him, to sit down across from him, but something held him rooted where he stood. "But now it has become as plain and as obvious as the moon in the sky." He swallowed hard. "You are in love with me, are you not?"

Holmes looked away, which was all the answer Watson needed. He sagged against the wall. "How could I have not known? How could I have not realised sooner?"

"You were not meant to," said Holmes. His voice was quiet and bland. "You were meant to be my friend and partner, and to never think of yourself as anything more than that. I would not risk that."

Watson studied him, as if seeing Holmes for the very first time. "You once told me that you thought of love as an emotion that you could never allow yourself to feel."

Holmes smiled without mirth. "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, of course," he said. "I should have known that I can no more control the whims of the human heart any more than I can control the weather, or the value of the pound."

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long, Holmes?" asked Watson. "How long have you felt this way?"

Holmes looked away. "You would not appreciate the answer to that question," he said. "Leave it be."

Watson took three long strides across the room and crouched next to Holmes. "How _long_?"

After a moment, Holmes sighed. "I do not recall," he said, and Watson knew it was a lie. There was very little that Holmes was not able to recall. "That is to say, I do not have an exact date for when I realised my admiration for you had changed. At first you were an enjoyable distraction to have about the house, and an invaluable companion on our adventures. Over time, I came to take your presence for granted, until such moments when I feared your presence might be interrupted by a criminal's knife, or a wayward bullet. The more danger we put ourselves in, the more concerned for your well-being I became, until I found myself putting your life above mine in all situations."

"Holmes..." Watson stared at him. "Again, I ask you, why did you not _say_?"

"Honestly, Watson," Holmes grimaced. "Would you have welcomed such a thing?" he asked. "I know you as a man who is fond of women, so fond that you went so far as to marry one." He shook his head. "I would never have burdened you with the knowledge that I harbored an unseemly appreciation for you, particularly as you are a man of no small status and I would not wish to affect your social standing adversely."

Holmes paused. "At least, no more than I have already done," he added wryly. "After all, it is hardly acceptable for a good doctor to cavort about the darker corners of London with an eccentric such as myself."

Watson frowned. "Holmes, that is an utter load of horse-shit."

"Beg pardon?"

"You've never given a thought to the demands of society," Watson said, "or my standing, or anyone's standing! You might play at the niceties when it serves your purpose, but you do not place any sort of importance upon it. Otherwise you would not be here, clean-shaven in a tatty dressing-gown. You would not tip your hat to strange ladies in the street, you would not sing bawdy songs in the bath that make Mrs Hudson feel faint." He shook his head. "No Holmes, your concern was not with how your admission would affect me but rather how my _reaction_ might affect _you_."

Watson looked at Holmes sadly. "Do you not understand that there is very little I would not forgive of you? That I am your friend, your dearest friend, and I remain so not despite your flaws and vices, but _because_ of them?"

For a moment, Holmes just stared at him. Watson felt a tiny surge of triumph at having rendered the great Sherlock Holmes speechless.

"You are correct," said Holmes finally. "I had great fear of your reaction to the revelation that I am unnaturally affected by you. I feared that you might be disgusted and offended, and... and that you would desert me." He looked down at his hands. "You might never have another adventure with me, and I do so enjoy our adventures, Watson."

Swiftly Watson took Holmes's hands in his.

"My dearest Holmes," he said. "I love our adventures, as well. But I would hope you would understand that there is nothing that would give me reason to abandon my most favored adventure, which is the adventure of _you_."

The grandfather clock by the mantle ticked like gunshot in the utterly silent room. Holmes's hands were shaking slightly, and Watson held them tighter.

"I am not offended," said Watson gently. "Nor am I disgusted. I do not subscribe to popular theories regarding this particular predilection."

"Don't you?" Holmes was staring at their hands, as if he could not believe the sight.

Watson shook his head. "I have seen things," he said. "When I was at school, when I was in the wars. I have seen the very best and worst of human nature, Holmes, and let me tell you that love - in all its forms - was always among the very best of it, and certainly nothing to be reviled, or punished." He squeezed Holmes's hands tighter. "There is so much sorrow and pain in this life. I cannot judge, nor can I fault anyone who manages to take comfort wherever they are able to find it." He looked down at their hands. "By God, I certainly have."

"Have you?"

Watson could hear the nervousness in Holmes's voice. "War," he said evenly, "can make for strange bedfellows."

When he looked up again he saw Holmes looking back, and at once he saw Holmes's mighty self-control finally crumble. He had only a moment to close his eyes before soft lips, tasting vaguely of port, pressed against his own.

As kisses went it was not spectacular in its application, but it nevertheless left Watson breathless. He held completely still, afraid to move or even return the kiss, lest he shatter this delicate moment, until Holmes pulled away, uncertainty naked upon his face.

Watson exhaled slowly and bent to kiss the knuckles of Holmes's hands. "Holmes," he whispered, to the soft skin there. "I will need time. I am still in mourning, for one. I still miss my wife, and I have a child to consider."

"Of course," said Holmes. He gripped Watson's hands tighter. "I would not ask anything of you-"

"Shut up," said Watson. He looked Holmes in the eye. "I am here, Holmes. Your affections are... not unrequited. Not at all. Do you understand?" He smiled. "You are not alone any longer. I am _here_."

Holmes stared at him for a moment, then he began to laugh. It wasn't the short bark of amusement Watson was accustomed to hearing from him but a more pure, genuine sound of joy. He thought he saw Holmes's eyes glittering in the dim candlelight.

"I am relieved to hear it," said Holmes. He looked at Watson. "Let us have no more secrets between us," he said. "It leaves a bad taste in one's mouth, to keep things from one's closest companions."

"Yes," said Watson. He swallowed. "Then let me share one of my own. I..." He took a deep breath. "I hastened Mary's passage from this life into the next. I could not... You must understand, there was nothing left of the woman I loved. She'd already left me. I wanted her to be free."

"Dear man," said Holmes. "This does not surprise me at all." At Watson's confusion he smiled. "You are too lovely a man to allow anyone to suffer needlessly. As evidenced by your immense sacrifice, to let her go. And your presence here tonight, well past your bed-time, in my sitting-room."

Relieved by Holmes's unspoken forgiveness, Watson dropped his forehead against Holmes's knuckles. "There is no one on this earth, I fear, who knows me as you do," he said, relieved. "You know me more than I know myself."

Holmes raised a hand and rested it on Watson's head, fingers threading into his hair. "On the contrary, you are my greatest mystery, John Watson," he said softly. "I think there is too much to learn of you, but I shall happily spend the rest of my life trying."

--

Shortly before Christmas, Watson returned to Baker Street, where it turned out that there was room for a nursery after all.

- End -

**"There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval." - George Santayana**


End file.
